


Second Skin

by WL_Erkling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Battle of Hogwarts, F/M, Remadora, Werewolf, creature - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 12:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10360377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WL_Erkling/pseuds/WL_Erkling
Summary: To everyone else, he's Remus-just Remus, To those who know, he's the skin-walking professor who's always been a little uncomfortable beneath the weight of his own shadow. Will he risk everything? Can he?





	

**Author's Note:**

> All canon character, plots, and situations from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this work.
> 
> Thank you so much to olivieblake, who was my beta for this entry.'
> 
> Song Inspiration: Crywolf- The Hunger in Your Haunt
> 
>   
>  [](http://s1248.photobucket.com/user/wlerkling/media/Second%20Skin%20Aesthetic_zpsjjfpfl9s.jpg.html)   
>    
>  [](http://s1248.photobucket.com/user/wlerkling/media/Second%20Skin_zps24xw3twq.jpg.html)   
>    
> 

**1 st May 1998 – Twilight**

 

“Take a walk with me?”

 

At the soft timbre of his voice, Tonks looks up from the book she’s holding. She’s read the last sentence at least three times, but couldn’t tell you the first word. The book makes a soft whir as it closes—she doesn’t bother with a bookmark. It was just a distraction anyway.

 

She stands, walks over to him, and puts her arms around his waist. His chin drops to her shoulder. “Are you sure?” Her fingers play at the small of his back and she can feel him nod into her jumper.

 

“I can’t be in here tonight. It’s too confined.”

 

His slender hands are rubbing up and down her arms. When he steps back to look out the window behind her, to breathe in the thick summer storm as it blows through the window, she shivers.

 

“All right.” She looks through him more than at him, because he’s already elsewhere. “Let me get a cloak.”

 

Tonks knows that Remus will not wear a cloak tonight. His skin itches and he’s dying to take off the cardigan he’s wearing—but he won’t. Instead, he’ll suffer the constant finite scratching—the awareness of every hair on his body being rubbed in the wrong direction. He’ll squirm and writhe beneath the trappings of his human body because it was his first skin; his _polite_ skin.

 

Away from the captivity of four walls and with nothing to breathe but stale, used air, he walks a little more freely. His bones don’t ache quite so badly and he can feel his muscles loosening beneath the warm rain. Neither of them bother with an umbrella spell. Instead, droplets fall across shoulders and down arms and drip from fingertips like a baptism of their fear.

 

Beneath the canopy of the trees, the rain is slower. It comes casually to fall across their tired eyes—but still, they walk. Tonks doesn’t know if Remus plans to walk until he can’t anymore, but she knows that asking is pointless. The answer is always the same: “What would you like to do?” And she always gives the same answer, “Anything for you.”

 

She smiles at the memory. It fills the silence with something more than the wet slide of their boots and the crunch of small branches beneath last season’s leaves.

 

A low, throbbing cry shatters her cadence and she falters. Remus reaches out a hand to her elbow to steady her, but she’s already looking around, eyes wide.

 

“That’s a bad omen, that is.”

 

It is rare that she sees his smile, but Remus gifts her with one. He points to her left, reaching across her chest and directing her shoulders so she can see. “Look—just there.” He uses the scruff of his chin against her cheek to nudge her. “Do you see it?”

 

In the brambles across the way, she spots a nest. It’s large and vaguely tear-shaped. Above the nest perches an awkward-looking creature. Tonks gasps, gripping Remus’ arm.

 

“I’ve not seen one before.” She squints to focus in the dim light. As she turns back to him, he catches her lips. She lifts a hand and meets his forehead with hers. “It’s not good, love,” she whispers, and shivers. “I’m afraid.”

 

Remus traces her jaw to draw her back to him. “It isn’t a bad omen, Nymphadora.” She smirks at the name, but he continues. “Augureys sing when a storm is coming.” His kiss is gentle and she shakes a little at the slow— _so_ slow—movement. “Come.”

 

He steps into the shadows and she slips after him, her boots heavy despite his words. As she walks behind him, she looks back to the mournful bird; she whispers, “I think it’s already here,” and turns back to find her husband.

 

She spots him amongst a tangle of beech trees, in a small clearing where a thick trunk spirals upward before branching off to meet its brethren. Breathing slowly, he grips the edge of his cardigan and tugs it over his head. He seems to sigh in relief; his eyes close and his head tilts back as if something’s been released—as if some bit of him is loose now. The garment is tossed to the ground and he’s tugging at the button on his trousers. It slips free, followed by the zipper.

 

Tonks licks her lips as these, too, are pushed down. He toes off his boots and steps out of them; everything ends up in a heap at his socked feet. She rolls her lip between her teeth. He watches her before removing his socks and tucking his toes in the dirt. He’s lolling his head to the side, moaning softly.

 

She admires him. He is a combination of lean strength and hidden talents, but he is _hers_. There is something in him that bows to the wildness in her despite the chaos in him, and she relishes the power she holds.

 

Tonks thumps forward in her chunky black boots and blinks heavy eyes. His cock hangs heavy, waiting. She reaches down, fingers wet and cold, listens to his hiss as she slides his foreskin back and forth. He drops his head to her shoulder and begins toying with the skin beneath her robe.

 

As she steps back, she can see the drugged look in his eyes, the way his limbs aren’t quite as smooth as they were. He’s trying desperately to move like Remus, like the Remus that he is when the moon’s pull isn’t quite so insistent, but he isn’t quite _him_. Her face sprawls in a wicked grin and she’s shucking clothing faster than she can manage gracefully. Several times she wriggles and stumbles, but this is Tonks, and Remus loves her.

 

When she’s naked before him, he drops low to the ground in a predatory crouch before sinking to his heels. She doesn’t wait. She stalks toward him and he grabs one leg, hooking it over his shoulder. His nose dives between her folds, licking a stripe upward. She shudders and he has to help her stay on her feet. Her hands come to his shoulders and it’s a new version of an old dance, but every beat is demanding.

 

His nose buries deeper to reveal her clit. This, he surrounds with his tongue. He strokes it, sucks it, flicks it—bites it. She throws her head back at this. When he looks up, all he can see is the swell of her belly, the curve of her chest, the exposed line of her throat. He growls and she feels the vibration through his mouth. It’s exquisite. She slowly drops her head to look at him and her eyes have changed to match the amber of his own. His fingers dig deeper into her thighs when he sees this, almost bruising, and she moans.

 

One hand trails the skin of her thigh, nails leaving wet, red lightning until he reaches the core of her. Sinking deep, she exhales-inhales- _Remus_. It’s too fast, too slow, but all she can do is feel as he pushes her over that edge, lapping his tongue against the most sensitive part of her. She cries into the rain, lets the sky into her mouth and Remus into her soul.

 

He lets her come down, both from her ecstasy and from his shoulder. As she sinks into his lap, all Tonks sees is Remus-not-Remus. This is her favorite part of him, but she doesn’t tell him that. She feels the edges of his humanity and the sharpness of his bite, and she basks in it. When he lines her up, trying to sink into her, she willingly falls from grace.

 

Remus flips them so she’s lying on her back in the leaves and the mud. She writhes in the muck of it, allowing it to stick to her in places it shouldn’t. He snarls, the movement too much for his first-skin. She knows he can feel the heat of her, smell the arousal she gifts him; he can taste it on his tongue, which he plunges deep in her mouth.

 

They do not make love. Tonks fears that would be trivializing the sheer need of their coupling. Remus thrusts into her as if she can be his everything, as if she can save him from the thing inside him by crawling inside of her. She cries her pain and pleasure, wanting him to hear that he’s acknowledged, that he’s loved—that he’s alive. When his cock swells inside her with the need to mate, to claim, Remus whimpers close to her ear. He rocks his hips as much as his knot will allow. Tonks tears at him, adds to the scars he carries because it’s _too much-oh gods-I love you_.

 

When both are trying to sort themselves out, trying to get breathing back under control and established as a regular bodily function, Tonks gently rubs at his scratch marks while Remus tries desperately not to feel him—the wolf. He’s howling and scratching and his skin feels feverish.

 

“Remus, love?” Tonks has mastered breathing, but her voice is scratchy—rough.

 

He looks to her, pleading.

 

“I know.” She reaches up a hand to brush her thumb across his cheekbone. He recoils. “It’s time. I think you should move.”

 

Remus takes in a shaky breath and pulls off of her, his body dripping more than the rain that soaks his hair. She stares at him as he crawls away, dropping limply to his side. It doesn’t take long. Perhaps he wanted it this way—perhaps she was a distraction, too.

 

He looks up once before it starts. She notices the slight change in his eyes, the lighter gold to his usual amber. His knuckles fold over where they’re holding him up and she can hear the bones cracking, shortening. Tonks sits up slightly when his hips jerk outward, rotating and locking back into place. She winces and Remus catches the movement. Her mouthed _I’m sorry_ is lost to the first of his screams.

 

Claws are coming out of his skin now. She leans forward just enough to see that he’s tearing at himself, that he’s made great long gashes in his thighs. Ribbons of muscle are exposed to the air and she breathes deeply when he reaches around—snout starting to extend from Remus’ lovely face—to bite at the open wound. He’s pulling at the skin, trying to get the excess muscle away from the leg. When he gets it off, there’s a long strip of human flesh in his mouth, blood dripping and still partially connected to his leg by a single piece of sinew. He chews on it until it’s gone.

 

The process repeats until Remus has pulled his first-skin from his body and devoured it.

 

He stands beneath the trees laboring for breath. Tonks doesn’t move. The charcoal wolf lifts his nose and takes short sniffs at the air. What he smells is familiar. What he smells is _his_.

 

Second-skin Remus pads toward her. He bristles at the display on the ground, at the smells of first-skin Remus. He snarls. Tonks knows not to move. She knows that Remus is _Remus_ and the wolf knows her; it knows its mate.

 

Her leg falls to the side and the wolf drops its head, stepping between her knees. Tonks looks him straight in those beautiful gold eyes, allows her own amber eyes to be circled by a ring of gold. Second-skin Remus licks at the inside of her thigh and a low growl meets her when she reaches out a hand. He snaps his jaws at her, saliva falling to her belly, but she continues. When she’s sitting up, she drops her head to the side and offers her neck. Second-skin Remus places his teeth on the strained tendons there, but releases her. She smiles at him and reaches up to caress his muzzle.

 

He allows this for a moment before dropping his nose to her belly, then her thighs. When he reaches the junction of thigh and labia, second-skin Remus whines. His tongue laps out. Her scent is there, but so is— _his?_ Second-skin Remus continues to lick at her, using a paw to hold her down when she tries to close her legs at a lick that’s too strong.

 

“Remus, love.” Her hand strokes his head. “That’s enough.” He’s whining as she pushes him away, but he shakes his head, drops of water spraying everywhere.

 

She rummages around in the dirt for her cloak and drapes it over herself. “Keep me warm,” she whispers, then lays on her side. Second-skin Remus growls once before settling beside her, listening through the rain.

 

* * *

 

**2 nd May 1998 – Dawn**

 

The message arrives and Remus is barely awake. His body fights his every move and he struggles just to lift the coin.

 

“It’s happening.”

 

Tonks rolls over, now clean and in their bed. “What is it, love?”

 

She wraps a hand around his waist, looks at the coin from her perch on his shoulder.

 

“It’s begun.” Remus pulls from her grasp, her fingers trailing along his bite mark as he slips away. “I have to go.”

 

“You? What about me?” She’s sitting up now, staring at him with the sheet tucked around her waist.

 

He looks to the floor, speaks to it as if he can’t bear speaking to her. “You should stay here. Take care of Teddy.”

 

The responsibility, the liability, the pure weight of what he’s saying hits Tonks and her mouth can’t hold it up. “But—”

 

He shakes his head sadly. “No, Nymphadora.” Her hair turns a bright shade of auburn as he says the name, but he ignores it. When he sits back on the bed and can finally gather his courage enough to turn to her, he reaches for her hand, grasps it, laces their fingers. “You must stay. He can’t lose us both.”

 

He’s said it.

 

“So you know it’s a lost cause, then?”

 

He doesn’t answer and she’s moving toward him, but he’s already trying to pull his socks on, his hands still not cooperating.

 

“Answer me, Remus!”

 

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, can’t stop shaking his head, can’t say anymore.

 

When he’s dressed, he stands and walks around the bed. His limp from the night before is still there. He’s using a cane that he’ll discard before he reaches Hogwarts, but he can’t hide from Tonks. She would see right through it.

 

She bites her lip and glares. “I’m not happy with this, Remus—not happy at all.” The words come out quickly and he nods into her neck. He kisses her there, kisses her cheek, her jaw, then each of her eyes. “You can’t make me stay.” She’s angry now. He feels it in the heat of her words, the soft pummeling of her fists against his chest. She doesn’t hit him because he’s still hurting from last night. She uses her words instead. “He’ll grow up without a father.”

 

Remus is crying when he closes the door.

 

* * *

 

**2 nd May 1998- Late Afternoon**

 

Hogwarts is in chaos.

 

He wasn’t quite sure what he’d be walking into when he arrived, but quickly being assigned the task of grounds defense with Arthur and Kingsley brings it into perspective—brings so many things cascading into crystal clarity.

 

Remus feels uneasy walking around in his first-skin right after a full moon. It’s as if he can still feel the pull, still feel the tearing and shredding, still taste the blood and smells which the storm barely washed away.

 

He closes his eyes to that now. Remus looks back to the huddle of students following him. They should be in their dorms, studying or writing essays or preparing for the next Hogsmeade weekend, but instead they’re out with him, preparing for a battle they might not win.

 

Words are foreign to him. He doesn’t know what to tell them when their fear overtakes their bravery and they quake beneath their robes. He doesn’t know what to tell them when the only friend they have left beside them breaks rank and flees to the safety of the castle. He doesn’t know, because these are his fears, too.

 

Despite the shuffle of shoes behind him, he’s alone and he’s afraid.

 

* * *

 

**2 nd May 1998 – Evening**

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

The voice is familiar. Tonks turns to see Harry and rushes forward to give him a hug. She’s been in the Room of Requirement, trying to coordinate the safe passage of students for some time. Only three of them are left in the room: herself, Ginny, and an elderly woman in an odd hat.

 

Harry explains his need for the room and they make plans to vacate. It’s when he looks to her again, asks the question, that she has to think about it, about _him._ “I thought you were with Teddy, at your mum’s?”

 

“Harry, I-I just couldn’t stand not knowing.”

 

His eyes are dark now and he nods to her. She flees from him, unable to stand in the tragic light he’s filtered through.

 

Tonks swallows as her legs slow down. She feels mired in sludge, just a tick too slow on the clock that moves ever closer to Remus. There is breathing and then there’s breath, and she’s out of both. Doubled over and looking from door to door, Tonks closes her eyes and feels. There is a thread that pulls her to him. There is some unknown bit of magic that’s infused the both of them, but she trusts it. She hasn’t trusted anything much in her life, but for _this_ she willingly steps out between the wands of wizards.

 

“Aberforth, have you seen him?”

 

It’s weak, and she thinks it’s—thinks _he’s_ fading.

 

“Last time I saw him, he was dueling Dolohov.” The younger Dumbledore tilts his head toward the open ground behind him and then she’s fleeing. She doesn’t notice the ground beneath her feet change from stone to grass, nor does she register the massacre that’s surrounding her as she hears it—

 

“You will never—” There’s a pregnant pause where Tonks knows the voice is his, but it’s almost _not_ his and she cries out. “—take what we have.” A flash of red illuminates more than the darkness when it falls across Remus’ arm. He takes the hit and falls to his knees, looking up at Dolohov. Remus crawls to his feet again, a shock of blue from his wand just grazing the Death Eater’s calf.

 

She wonders how long they’ve been fighting when she sees there are several other casualties around them. Faces bleed into blackness when she steps over bodies made of clay. All she can see is _him_.

 

“Remus,” she whispers.

 

He looks at her for a fraction of a section and Dolohov takes advantage. Remus raises his wand, but knows it’s too late when he looks back at Tonks. His eyes are begging her to go, but asking her to stay. When the spell hits him, Remus is mouthing the words _I love—_ and then he is gone.

 

Tonks runs forward, standing over her lover’s body. Her nostrils flare and the tears hovering in her eyes threaten the limited vision she has of Antonin.

 

“You do not deserve to live.” The words he spits are acid in her ears and they burn to the pit of her stomach.

 

She lifts her wand to duel him and something catches her attention. Beneath her, Remus’ eyes are open and the gold has faded back to amber. Startled, she’s caught off-guard when Dolohov starts walking closer.

 

“Such a pity. I might have liked to play with you first.”

 

She ignores this as she kneels down to close Remus’ eyes. It’s when she rises that her wand is out, a shield spell keeping his _Flipendo_ from touching her. She casts a quick “ _Incendio_ ” which catches more of the surrounding bodies on fire than him and Tonks grinds her teeth in irritation.

 

His eyes are calculating. He steps back rapidly and she moves to follow, but she doesn’t see the outstretched hand of a fallen student. Tonks scrambles to move the offending appendage, to get back up, but she hears him and it’s _over—too fast—it was all for_ nothing.

 

 _No_ , she thinks as she sees Remus sprawled across the ink-stained grass. _It was everything_.

 

Her eyes are open, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no one to close them until the dead are counted and moved. When they are pulled down like shutters on a camera, the flash of light is all that’s left burned into her retinas—all they could find if they looked.

 

* * *

 

**10 th May 1998 – Morning**

 

Grey skies follow the defeat of Voldemort. They reign over Scotland for weeks following the backlash of magic that Harry’s final battle caused. Many believe it to be the land’s way of cleansing itself. Others feel the gods are punishing them for the waste of life.

 

None of that matters to those attending funerals of those they loved.

 

Ron and Hermione huddle together beside the caskets. His hand surrounds hers—a warm comfort as she shivers each time the names are mentioned.

 

“Are you okay?” Ron nudges her gently, his cheek resting against hers. She’s sniffling and dabbing at her eyes, but she nods.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

Across the way, they see Harry holding Teddy. His hair changes colors rapidly from dark brown to pink to electric blue. He’s crying as he hears his parents’ names and Harry’s trying to soothe him. He won’t let Andromeda take the child from his arms.

 

“Oh, Harry.”

 

Hermione’s cries are a little louder now and Ron pulls her closer, rests a hand around her shoulders.

 

Everyone looks up when a deep, warbling cry echoes between the stones. It’s harsh and grating, but oddly beautiful. Ron spots the bird as it lands and gasps. “That’s an Augurey. It’s a bad omen, you know.” He pulls Hermione close.

 

She steps closer to the bird, its feathers so intensely green they’re almost black. Its head lowers, continuing the mournful cry. Hermione looks back to Ron.

 

“It’s not a bad omen, Ron,” she tells him quietly. “They sing when there’s a storm coming. It’s quite lovely, really.”

 

He looks at the pitiful creature whose voice doesn’t quite match its thin, vulture-like appearance and he thinks of another creature whose skin didn’t match with what he held inside.

 

“It isn’t fair,” Ron’s voice grates out, caught up with emotion.

 

Hermione begins walking them toward Harry and Teddy, gripping his hand tightly. “It never is.”


End file.
